The World hath shamelesse _Boasters_, who pretend, In sundry matters, to be skill’d so well, That, were they pleased, so their houres to spend, They say, they could in many things excell. But, though they make their hearers to beleeve, That, out of _Modestie_ their _Gifts_ they hide, In them wee very plainely may perceive, Or _Sloth_, or _Envy_, _Ignorance_, or _Pride_. When other mens endeavours they peruse, They either carpe at what they cannot mend; Or else of Arrogance doe those accuse, Who, to the publike view, their _Workes_ commend. If these men say, that they can _Poetize_, But, will not; they are false in saying so: For, he, whose _Wit_ a little that way lies, Will _doing_ bee, though hee himselfe _undoe_. If they, in other _Faculties_ are learned, And, still, forbeare their _Talents_ to imploy; The truest _Knowledge_, yet, is undiscerned, And, that, they merit not, which they injoy. Yea, such as hide the _Gifts_ they have received, (Or use them not, as well as they are able) Are like _fayre Eyes_, of usefull sight bereaved; Or, _lighted-Candles_, underneath a _Table_. Their glorioust part, is but a _Painted-cloath_, Whose _Figures_, to the wall-ward, still are hung. Their hidden _Vertues_, are apparant _Sloth_; And, all their life, is to the publike wrong: For, they doe reape the _Fruits_, by many sowne, And, leave to others, nothing of their owne. _The =Moone=, which is =decreasing= now, When shee =returnes=, will =fuller=, grow._ [Illustration: REDIBO PLENIOR. ILLVSTR. XLVIII. _Book. 3_]